I Quit Taking Meds for My Mental Illness, But I Don’t Recommend It

By Conner Carey

Chronicality op-eds discuss healthcare and lifestyle issues faced by the chronic illness community. The thoughts expressed here are the author’s and don’t necessarily reflect the outlook of the publication.

Mental illness is rarely understood except by those it affects, whether that be the diagnosed or (the truly caring and present) friends and family. Since this is the case, too often I see articles like, “5 Methods to Cure Your Anxiety,” or “How to Calm Your Crazy.” I hate those articles. (Also, can we drop crazy from our vocabulary? You don’t say retarded do you? If you do, stop that too.) Articles that shame medication-takers should be ashamed. Only the individual, their therapist or doctor, and sometimes their trusted inner circle can have an opinion on whether or not the individual should be on medication.

The thing is, mental health or illness isn’t mental at all. Mental implies some force of will, that you can push through well enough or change your thoughts to make the rainbows and sunshine appear. It doesn’t work like that.

Take your left hand and place it on your head. Feel your hair? Perhaps your scalp? Well somewhere in there is a brain. And like any other part of the body, sometimes it works and sometimes it doesn’t. If you break your arm, no amount of mental fortitude is going to set the bones correctly and hold it perfectly in place for the next couple months. And for some people, medication is the only way to lead a stable, healthy life.

Then Why Did I Go Off Medication?

Let me start off by saying I have an emergency prescription filled. Luckily, I haven’t had to touch it. But it’s there, and that’s important. Next, I didn’t know I was bipolar until the shit seriously hit the fan. I slipped into a psychosis, went to multiple hospitals, had a stint in solitary confinement, then was sent home with my mom and four bottles of meds: lithium, an antipsychotic drug, an anti-paranoia drug and anti-anxiety drug. The first two were must-haves and the other two were to be taken on an as-needed basis. I quickly realized I shouldn’t take the second two: one sent me into fits of crying followed by hours of sleep, while the other made me hyper-aware and, ironically, super paranoid. OK, two to go.

At this point, I had no life. Meds were my life. Taking them and wading them out were my life. I could eat, sleep, bathe and watch TV. Taking my dog for a walk was out of the question: I was obviously being watched and tracked. It took about two weeks to realize the anti-psychotics were giving me paranoid delusions. One night before bed, a shadow on the wall leapt out and danced. I began to wean off of the third medication after that.

I talked with my doctor and we lowered the lithium dose. But when I would take it, my entire body felt like it was moving through molasses. I would sit and think, “is this what stones feel?” We lowered the dose more: I began taking one in the morning instead of one in the morning and at night. I could now take my dog for walks. I even walked to my friend’s house one day. It was a major accomplishment.

Yet I was terrified to go in public. My vision was blurry. I couldn’t tell if the face four feet in front of me was familiar or strange. I badly wanted to begin driving again, but it made me woozy and the signs were in a haze. The cherry on top — or rather the straw that broke the camel’s back — was that I couldn’t write, read, sing, paint or create anything. I didn’t have the focus, the will or the energy. I was a stone.

What It’s Been Like Dealing With Mental Illness While Coming off the Meds

It would take me the next five months to slowly wean off the last med, but I did. I re-enrolled in school that fall, and by November, I said “goodbye” to the last lithium pill down my esophagus. Has it been easy? Hell no! It’s been a roller coaster with someone who falls asleep at the controls. I’ve barfed on my shoes at least 100 times. Metaphorically.

I’m also a smoker. I know, I know lung cancer and blah blah blah — we’re just taking it day by day, OK? Get your panties out of a bunch! I like to smoke. I like those moments I keep all to myself. When it’s just me, a cigarette and sometimes the keyboard clacking away. Or me, a cigarette and the railroad tracks with the trees leaning over them as I lay in the grass on my break. I get energy from moments like that.

But my ability to be without medication is of no credit to my person. That is a very important distinction. It’s not because I’m more optimistic. It’s not because I eat the right foods or do the right yoga or practice the right voodoo. That’s just my brain. No better or worse than any other brain. It’s a unique map with twists and turns, mountains and oceans I discover everyday. I would imagine yours is too.

I Don’t Recommend You Stop Taking Your Medication

Stopping my meds has worked for me, but I don’t recommend it because I’m not you, or your therapist, or your doctor, or your close friend or family member. I’m a woman who’s had her own set of experiences. My experiences know nothing of what it’s like to live yours. That is true of every human being in that we are all unique. Love your brain. That’s my only advice. Love it, regardless.

If medication is your path, if nutrition and exercise work for you, if weed is your relief, or a glass of wine, who am I to judge? If you can honestly tell me you’re doing good, by all means, do good. Some people will disagree, and that’s OK. But let me reference the beginning of this article: mental illness is rarely understood except by those it affects. And it is not a thing to be feared.

I live on a roller coaster, but I feel so much. I see from all kinds of perspectives I’d never imagined. I sometimes feel like a toddler again, marveling at something often overlooked and appreciating accomplishments often undervalued. I have to listen to myself. There is no alternative. I understand the importance of white spaces, the gaps between words and, even, between letters. The white spaces in my brain are very important too. Like those small moments I keep all to myself, the white spaces let my imagination run like a wild thing and dance like a shaman. And I go barefoot, walking in the rain, no umbrella or MP3 player. Just the “shh, shh, shh” of a downpour.

Conner Carey holds a bachelor’s in English and resides in Fairfield, Iowa. She was published on Art Parasites for her poem You, Woman, and recently joined Love U magazine’s editorial team. Her article on Radical Self-Acceptance will appear in Love U mag’s issue this Summer. She also works full-time for iPhoneLife magazine. When not writing, you can find her singing Janis Joplin or collecting more books than she’ll ever read. Her blog can be found at connerleecarey.com; you can also find her on Twitter and Instagram @connerleecarey.

Article originally published July 17, 2016 on Chronicality.com